


A Long December

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, First Kiss, Fluff, John's a good doctor and a good friend, M/M, Male Slash, Sherlock doesn't get sick, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Winter, expect he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock get snowed in, Sherlock doesn't feel well and John looks after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long December

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little JohnLock drabble.  
> Major thanks as always to Barawen for the Britpick!

He hated winter. All that wetness, the snow, the cold. He couldn't find anything poetic in a bloody snowstorm that kept him from the rest of the world. 

From The Work. 

Frowning he stared out of the window, the bow sliding rather harshly over the strings of the violin. 

There was so much to do, yet he was confined to the flat and he hated it. 

He felt trapped and restless. 

He lowered the bow with a dissonant wail; even his beloved instrument couldn't soothe the feeling of unease that surged through his body. 

Tucking it away - carefully - he set the case as close to the fire as he dared without harming it. 

The heating wasn't working; not much to do about it as Mrs Hudson was at her sister's and the repair service wouldn't be able to make it to 221b before the next morning. 

At least that was what John had told him earlier before he left for work. 

Sherlock snorted and tugged the ends of his dressing gown closer around himself. 

The flat wasn't exactly cold, thanks to the roaring fire in the hearth but he could feel the chill coming from the windows. 

For a moment he contemplated making tea but quickly dismissed it. 

Not his area. And John would be home soon. 

Sherlock walked to his chair and curled up in it, the warmth from the fireplace welcomed after he stood by the window for who knows how long. 

He stared into the flames, pondering whether or not to continue an experiment with chemical reactions in fire. 

But for once his brain had slowed down and he couldn't be bothered to get up again. 

Also John had been very stroppy about it the last time and wouldn't be happy with another try when he came home. 

Glancing at his watch, Sherlock sighed. 

Still two more hours, perhaps even longer with weather like this. 

The flat was so quiet he could hear the snow wisp against the windowpanes. 

His phone chimed and he twisted to retrieve it from his pocket. 

Disappointment surged through him as he read Lestrade's text. Nothing new on the double homicide, the snow had washed away all evidence and the corpses were stuck somewhere between Lancaster and London due to the storm so Sherlock couldn't even examine them. 

He quickly typed an answer and tossed the phone on the floor. 

Bloody snowstorm. 

Grumbling he sank deeper into his chair, wrapping himself tighter into his dressing gown. 

 *

"Sherlock..." 

He shot up, for a heartbeat disoriented before he realised that he'd fallen asleep. 

John stood in front of him, a grin tugging on his lips, snow in his hair. 

"Slept well?" he teased, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Sherlock stared at him, fascinated by the crinkles around his eyes. 

"You alright?" John asked, tilting his head.

"What? Oh yes, of course," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. 

John eyed him, then nodded and strolled into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and rummaged through the cupboards. 

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked over his shoulder before he snorted and answered it himself.

"Of course you haven't. Probably spent all day sulking in that chair." 

Sherlock shot him a sharp glance that only met John's back.

"I don't sulk," he muttered. 

"Yes you do. I brought some Chinese if you want some..." 

John let the sentence hang unfinished in the air but Sherlock felt a smile flicker over his own face. 

John always did that: buy food enough for two just in case even though Sherlock rarely ate. 

But to his own surprise he felt his stomach rumble as John unpacked the boxes and the unmistakable smell of Kung Pao and fried rice filled the room. 

He watched through half closed lids how John filled two plates and carried them into the sitting room. 

Wordlessly he handed Sherlock one, put his own down on the small table next to his chair and returned into the kitchen to fetch their tea. 

Handing over the mug to Sherlock he eventually sat down himself, sighing softly. 

"Good to be home," he murmured before he dug into his food. 

They ate in silence, the only sounds the fire crackling and John humming contently every now and then. 

When they were finished - Sherlock ate everything - John collected their plates and returned them to the kitchen. 

He came back with a bottle of whisky, spiking his tea with it. He held out the bottle. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but held out his own mug. 

"'s cold," John said by way of explaining. 

Sherlock only shrugged but as he took a sip of his tea, the alcohol warmed him better than tea alone could and he agreed silently. 

"So? What did you do all day?" John asked, leaning back in his chair, stretching his feet towards the fire. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John chuckled. 

"Bored, aren't you?" 

Sherlock glared. 

"Yes, yes, I know," John said, quirking another grin in Sherlock's direction, "those damn criminals rather stay inside in weather like this. How dare they." 

He laughed and took another sip of his tea before he got up, grimacing. 

"I need a shower." 

Sherlock watched as John disappeared in direction of the bathroom, absently taking another sip of his tea. 

It was strange. Even though nothing had changed, he suddenly felt rather content. It was still snowing, judging by the rattling against the windows even heavier than before and he could feel the cold creeping further into the room but it didn’t bother him as much as a few hours ago. 

Must be the alcohol, he thought, ignoring Mycroft's insistent voice in his head. 

_'It's not and you know that'_

"Shut up," Sherlock murmured, pulling his feet under himself. 

He could hear the shower running and John humming one of those dreadful tunes he always hummed when showering. 

Sherlock was over aware of the hot mug in his hand, the scent of Earl Grey heavy in the air. Soon it was mixed with the faint smell of John's shampoo coming from the bathroom. 

Suddenly the lights flickered, went out and on again before they flickered again and stayed off. 

A sharp curse came from the bathroom, a rumble and John appeared in the kitchen, a towel wrapped tightly around his hips. 

"What the hell, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock only stared at him wide-eyed. 

John looked around, confused and frowning, and then stumbled to the window to look outside. 

"Damn. The entire street is dark. Bugger." 

Muttering under his breath he disappeared upstairs while Sherlock stayed put, sipping his tea, deep in thoughts. 

When John came back in to the sitting room, he was dressed warmly. 

"Bloody hell, it's freezing upstairs," he said, throwing his towel over a chair. 

"Guess I'll sleep in the couch then. No way to sleep in that fridge. How's your bedroom? Is it as cold as mine?" 

Sherlock made a non committal noise. He hadn't checked. Not that he cared, he didn't really need sleep, he hadn't done anything at all today. 

John kept on muttering as he walked around the flat, lighting a few candles before he sat back in his chair. 

"At least we have the fireplace to keep us warm," he said, rubbing his hands in front of said fire. 

Sherlock watched him attentively, deduced his day at the surgery. John knew this and let him; it's become a habit of Sherlock's. Sometimes John wanted to talk about his days but sometimes he was too worn out. Then he just sat there and let Sherlock read him. 

Sherlock liked that better. 

It had been a tough day: lots of cases of the flu, due to the weather, a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. Oh, and a woman had asked him out, rather blatantly. John had declined. Interesting. 

It's been a while since he'd been out in a date. Quite some time, Sherlock recalled. 

For a moment he was irritated that he could remember that. 

But when it came to John, he had stopped deleting things. Everything he did was important to Sherlock, even the small and ordinary things. 

Like the way his forehead creased when he was thinking, or the little crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. 

It filled Sherlock with a familiar warmth and made his heart beat a tad bit faster. 

"Done for today?" 

John's voice tore Sherlock out of his musings. 

He looked at John who watched him with a gentle expression on his face. 

"Seen everything you need to see?" he asked lowly, "cause if so, I'd call it a night. Was a long, cold day." 

"Oh. Yes, certainly," Sherlock said.

His voice sounded hoarse and he swallowed, surprised at the lump in his throat. 

John narrowed his eyes. 

"Are you getting ill?" he asked and leaned over to lay a hand on Sherlock forehead. 

"Shit, Sherlock, you're burning up." 

Sherlock frowned. 

"No, I'm not," he wanted to say but the noises coming from his mouth were only croaks. 

"Yes, you are. Bloody hell, why didn't you say that you're not feeling well? And only wearing your bloody pajamas." 

John jumped to his feet and suddenly the room was filled with flurry motions Sherlock wasn't able to follow. 

When John stopped moving again, Sherlock was wrapped in the covers from his bed and a glass with water was pressed in his hand. 

"Take this, that'll keep the fever down." 

A pill was pushed between his lips and Sherlock swallowed, washing it down with the water. 

John took the glass from his hand and stood there for a moment before he visibly made a decision. 

"You sleep here tonight," he finally said, sounding determined, "don't move." 

With that he disappeared again only to return a bit later with his own covers and a few pillows which he threw on the sofa. 

"You take the sofa, I sleep on the floor," he announced, taking Sherlock's hands and pulled him up. 

They collapsed onto the floor as Sherlock knees didn't want to carry him. 

"Dammit, Sherlock, help me a little here," he grumbled, trying to pull him back up. 

Sherlock tried. And failed. His limps didn't want to obey him anymore and he grunted frustrated. 

John understood instantly. 

"Stay put, I got you." 

He jumped to his feet and retrieved the bedding and the pillows, arranged them in front of the fire into a nest. 

"Come here, roll over," he commanded and Sherlock felt himself manoeuvred onto the cool fabric. 

He hummed appreciatively and curled into himself. 

John pulled another cover over him, stuffed it around his long frame. 

"There. Try to sleep now." 

John's voice was a soft buzz in Sherlock's ears, it filled his head, drowned out everything else. 

 *

When he woke again, his head hurt. So did his throat and his chest and he was freezing. 

Wearily he lay still for a second, observing the uncontrolled shivering of his body. Fascinating. 

A movement next to him distracted him and he lifted his head only to find John looking at him with concerned eyes. 

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but groaned instead as a jolt of pain shot through his chest. 

"Yeah, you've got yourself the flu," John said matter of factly. 

He got up from his crouched position and vanished out of Sherlock restricted view. 

He blinked a few times but the room didn't really want to come into focus. 

Frustrated he wanted to sit up only to discover that his limbs no longer belonged to him. At least it felt like it as he struggled with the easy task to push the covers away. 

"Shh, Sherlock, stop it, you're ill." 

John's voice floated around his head and cool hands pulled him up. 

"Here, something for the pain." 

Another pill got pushed between his lips and he swallowed with difficulties. 

"Drink. Careful..." 

John helped him drink and then he fell back onto the covers. 

"Go back to sleep," John murmured, falling heavily into his chair. 

Blinking through the cotton in his head, Sherlock looked at him, frowning. 

"Yes Sherlock, I am here, don't worry. Sleep now." 

Sherlock wanted to protest, he wasn't tired, he didn't need sleep. And why was John still here? Didn't he want to sleep on the sofa? 

Sherlock grunted, trying to get words out but again failed. 

"Sleep," John said, leaning down and tugged the covers tightly around Sherlock. 

"You?" Sherlock pressed out. 

"I'll be here." 

That was wrong. John needed sleep. Much more so than Sherlock did. 

He reached out, forcing his hand up and closed it around a leg of John's trousers. 

He tugged on it and John leaned forward again, frown creases etched deeply into his forehead. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Sleep," Sherlock croaked, squeezing his eyes shut as he tugged again, suddenly determined to make John rest. 

Sighing the man plucked Sherlock's hand from his trousers but instead of letting go, Sherlock tightened his grip, now around John's hand. 

"You...need...sleep..." he managed to say, clinging to John's hand, willing him to understand his intent. 

John watched him for a moment before he sighed and slid to the floor. 

"Yes, I do," he murmured as he stretched out next to Sherlock, sighing relived. 

Sherlock was satisfied. John would sleep, the nest of covers was warm and soft and John was here. 

He hummed contently and settled back, allowing sleep to take over. 

 *

When he woke the next time, grey morning light fell into the flat. Everything hurt but the daze in his head had cleared a little and as he tried to lift his head, he found that he had control over his body again. 

Carefully he rolled onto his side only to be stopped by John's body next to him. 

He was asleep on his back, his hands folded over his stomach, his face turned toward Sherlock, his mouth parted a bit. 

Sherlock watched him breathe, counted the seconds between inhale and exhale, rather enthralled in the up and down of John's chest. 

The covers had slid down, tangled around John's waist, exposing the grey t-shirt he wore in bed. 

Sherlock could almost see John's heart, beating strong and undisturbed, pumping blood through his veins with every beat. 

An overwhelming urge to feel it overtook Sherlock and he shuffled closer so he could lay his head on John's chest. 

A soft smile lingered over his lips as he heard its loud cadence under John's skin. 

John murmured something in his sleep; the sound of it vibrating against Sherlock's cheek, making him press closer to John. 

Suddenly John started awake, almost shoving Sherlock of his chest. 

"Wha...Sherlock??? What..." 

"Shhh John..." Sherlock mumbled, pushing the other man back down. 

John stiffened before he relaxed again but Sherlock still felt the tension in him. 

He slid one hand under John's tee, caressing the soft skin of his stomach, a few coarse hairs tickling his fingertips. 

"Sherlock...what?..." John tried again but Sherlock shushed him again. 

"Warm," he muttered, deeply absorbed in the texture of John's skin, the ridges of his ribs and the smell of a sleepy John. 

"Oookay," John said, confusion clearly in his tone but Sherlock felt the tension drain from him. 

He sighed contently while his fingers mapped out John's stomach, sliding further up to settle over his heart. 

John shivered. 

His heartbeat sped up and Sherlock watched fascinated as gooseflesh covered John's arm. 

"Oh," he breathed, causing another shudder in John's body. 

Sherlock shifted, sliding his head away from John's chest and looked up. 

John's eyes were wide and he was biting his lower lip. He met Sherlock's curious gaze and Sherlock could see confusion but also arousal in them. 

"Sherlock," John whispered, his voice rough and his breathing heavy. 

Sherlock eyes flickered over John's face, drinking in the darkness of his eyes, the slight hitch in his breath as he splayed his fingers over John's chest, pressing harder against his skin. 

"John," Sherlock murmured, "my John." 

John gasped, a full on body shudder running through him. He lifted a shaky hand and hesitantly laid it on Sherlock's cheek. 

The contact sparked something hot and foreign in Sherlock's chest and without thinking he leaned into John's palm. 

"Oh Sherlock..." 

It was hushed and would have gone unnoticed if Sherlock hadn't been watching John's face closely. 

The hand on Sherlock's cheek slid into his hair, pulling him gently down. 

"Come here," John whispered and then his lips were on Sherlock's, warm and soft and a bit damp. 

A cascade of impressions hit Sherlock and threatened to overwhelm him. 

The roughness of John's lips. 

The heat radiating from his face. 

The scent of tea and soap, mixed with John's very own scent. 

The feeling of John's hand on his scalp, cradling him closer. 

And then the taste of John's tongue, grazing carefully over Sherlock's lower lip. 

With a low moan his jaw went slack, allowing John to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, curling tentatively around his.

There was a buzz in Sherlock's head, he couldn't breathe properly and the nearness of John was dazzling. 

But he couldn't get enough of it. Hesitantly he kissed back, touching his tongue against John's, the slick slide of flesh against flesh heady and intoxicating. 

He got lost in the kiss until the need for air made him pull back, panting and with a pounding heart. 

John's hand was still in his hair, gently sliding through it, a soothing motion. 

Sherlock opened his eyes; when did he close them? John was watching him, a soft smile dancing over his reddened lips. 

"That was...unexpected," he said eventually, pushing his other hand into Sherlock's hair that shot a rush of adrenaline through his veins. 

He wanted to say something but as he opened his mouth, John shook his head. 

"Don't speak. I like you like this for a change. C'mere, kiss me again..." 

With that he pulled Sherlock back against his mouth. He kissed Sherlock until he was dizzy and breathless. 

"Lay back," John mumbled and gently pushed Sherlock on his back, his hands never leaving him. 

He curled around him instantly, pressing his shorter frame against Sherlock's long limbs and pulled a cover over them both. 

"Go back to sleep," he whispered, placing soft butterfly kisses on Sherlock's lips, his cheeks, his closed lids. 

"We'll talk when you're feeling better." 

Sherlock wanted to protest, there was nothing to talk about but John's tone was commanding and Sherlock too drowsy to find a proper argument against it. 

He clung to John's shirt, making the other man chuckle. 

"Relax, I won't go anywhere." 

Pressing a kiss on Sherlock forehead he shifted, pulling Sherlock as close as possible, wrapping his arms around him.

Sherlock fell asleep, feeling for the first time in his life... safe. 

 

 

 


End file.
